


hereafter (the again we rise remix)

by abovetheruins



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Apocalypse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-02
Updated: 2011-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-24 06:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here at the end, they just have to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hereafter (the again we rise remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ciudad (descartes)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/descartes/gifts).
  * Inspired by [hereafter](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/4788) by ciudad. 



His front yard looks like some sort of war zone. Gouges rent the earth, the ground mud-drenched and ruptured, like someone - like some _thing_ \- tore through it with massive claws. It's impossible to see a scrap of green, if any green is actually _left_. Somehow Cook doubts it.

Even the sky looks desolate. Nine in the fucking morning and there's not even a trace of blue; it's pitch black, the air choked with smoky flakes of ash and bits of debris. He doesn't try to look for the sun, knows it's nowhere to be seen, anyway - hasn't been, for the past week. Cook can't even see the end of his driveway through the dust and grit. He's not planning on leaving the (relative) safety of his house anytime soon, but it's not a stretch to think that the rest of the street (hell, probably the rest of the _city_ , if not the entire fucking world) looks about the same.

Not a train of thought he wants to follow anytime soon. With a gusty sigh Cook snaps the heavy curtains back over the window pane, hiding his ruined yard from sight. Standing there, in his living room with his familiar furniture and photos and things strewn about, it's almost easy to pretend that everything is normal, that nothing has changed, that the past week has just been one long, nightmarish dream.

But his sofa - the plush black leather one that he always used to fall asleep on - is pushed up against the front door, along with every other heavy piece of furniture he'd managed to move there. The blinds on every window are shut, curtains drawn tight, and against the sill of each lies a heavy, solid line of salt (same with the doors and every other point of entry.)

It's why he's up in the main house at all, why he's not still down in the basement with Dublin and Archie.

Honestly he wouldn't have minded the company. The house is too _quiet_ , the power having sparked out long ago, and it's eerie. Cook is used to _noise_ , to shouts and laughter and conversation, Neal and Andy and the rest of the guys tromping through his house like they own it, noodling around on guitars or camping out on his couch.

He calls them every day, all of them scattered around the country because they'd been on a break (a fucking _break_ ), and even though both his and Archie's cell phones are almost out of battery it doesn't deter him from making each and every call he can, to his mother and brother and band (he'd wanted to check on _everyone_ \- Carly and Brooke, Michael). It kills him that he can't, that he doesn't know what's happening to them all, but if it's a choice between knowing what his family and closest friends are up to and not knowing anything at _all_ , well. He'll take what he can get.

He doesn't like to think about what might happen, once their phones finally give out. As stir crazy as he's going now, as horrible as the urge is to just _go outside_ , apocalypse be damned, at least they still have some measure of a link to the outside world. The fact that their phones even work at all is enough of a godsend that he's able to bear the helplessness of being trapped in his house a little easier than if it were otherwise.

And, truth be told, he's afraid that if he actually does go outside - suicidal as that would probably be - Archie would be right there with him. Cook doesn't even want to think about the amount of cajoling and begging and downright pleading he'd had to do just to get Archie to stay put, back when this whole thing had started. The younger man had been so adamant about getting to his family, despite the fact that hundreds of miles and the whole damn world falling apart had stood between them, that Cook had almost had to tackle him to the floor to prevent him from running off. Couldn't let him go because he knows (even if he firmly shoves the idea to the back of his mind as soon as it presents itself) that Archie never would have made it.

It helps to be able to hear the rest of the Archuleta's voices, early in the morning and late at night when Archie calls in to check on them. They're all alright, thank God, all _alive_ , if a little more worse for wear. It's not like it's easy on any of them, but at least Archie's siblings and parents are together.

Being alone in this, Cook thinks, reinforcing the salt lines around the house with quick efficiency, would be its own special sort of hell. He shudders at the thought that, had Archie not asked to meet him that day nearly a week ago, he _would_ be.

Even now it's hard to remember what they even talked about, sitting in some little cafe in downtown LA. Archie had only been in town for a few more days, wrapping up things with his management before he took a few weeks off to be with his family, and his phone call and subsequent invitation to lunch, as surprising as both had been, had actually made Cook pretty happy (and, if he were being honest with himself, maybe even a little bit excited.) It had been months since he'd been in the same room as the kid, ages since they'd even gotten to _talk_ , and - despite the awkwardness that seemed to build up between them every time they spent a few months apart - Cook had been looking forward to the reunion with a surprising amount of enthusiasm. He'd _missed_ Arch.

They'd only been there for an hour, talking about inconsequential things - Cook's upcoming tour, how the guys were all taking a short break before they had to hit the road, what Archie planned to do on his own time off. Cook could tell that something was... off about the younger man. He'd seemed more distracted than usual, almost nervous, and even a round of Cook's most cringe-worthy jokes hadn't been able to make him crack a smile. Cook had been about to bring it up, had just opened his mouth to ask Archie what was on his mind when the air around them had fucking _exploded_.

There hadn't even been some kind of warning - the rumble before an eruption, the roar of thunder before a storm. Only heat - stifling, suffocating heat - and the crunch of asphalt as the road stretching alongside the cafe suddenly cracked, fractures spreading all along the street like spider webs. Chunks of the road had splintered off to the side, cars swerving to try and avoid the worst of it, some of them careening off onto the sidewalk as their drivers lost control. And the sky... it was like someone had pulled a blanket over their eyes, the bright blue of the afternoon replaced by a dark, murky black within a few short seconds.

He remembers Archie reaching for him, the soft touch of fingers curling in his sleeve as they'd both just sat there, sweat breaking out on both of their brows while the blare of car horns and sirens filled the air. There was a heartbeat of calm, a split second of stunned confusion wherein nobody seemed able to move, before an ear-splitting screech had broken the silence, so high and piercing that everyone nearby had been pressing their hands hard against their ears - Cook and Archie included - faces pinched with pain.

Cook had made a grab for Archie's hand just as the first crack of thunder boomed, something in his head telling him to _move_ , move _now_. The screeching wasn't tapering off, his ears were ringing and his head was buzzing with it, and he couldn't - _they_ couldn't stay there any longer, not when the road was splintering apart, the sky darkening rapidly overhead.

They weren't the only ones trying to get away. There were people all around, moving and pushing, confusion and fear thick among them. Cook could hear people yelling, asking what was going on ( _like anyone even **knew**_ ), but he'd done his best to ignore them all, pushing his way through the crowd and tugging Archie towards the car he'd left parked on the side of the road (thankfully in the opposite direction of the rapidly spreading cracks up ahead).

"C-Cook?" Archie had stumbled after him, gripping hard to Cook's hand, voice hushed and a little shaky. "What's.. what's going on?"

"I don't know, Arch," he'd said, pushing down the fear and panic welling up in his chest, not wanting Archie to worry. "Just. We're going to go back to my place, okay?" Like his house would be even safer. Still, it was better than where they were, and it was almost like instinct anyway, wanting to be somewhere familiar in the midst of chaos.

They'd just gotten into the car (Archie not saying another word, which only served to put Cook more on edge than before) when the first explosion had rocked the vehicle on its wheels.

It _felt_ like an explosion, at least. There was a muted boom, a shower of rocks and asphalt a hundred or so feet down the road, and then the screaming began in earnest.

Cook hadn't waited around to see what it was. With a twist of his key in the ignition and a sharp glance over his shoulder, he'd backed out of his parking space and tore off towards home. It was slow going - frustratingly so - with people swarming the streets as they ducked into their own cars and away from the commotion, but Cook grit his teeth and drove as quickly as he dared, shooting glances at Archie every now and then (darting away just as quickly once he'd see the frightened, anxious look on the younger man's face, knowing he just needed to get them somewhere _safe_.)

And he _had_. He'd gotten them to his house in one piece despite the inkiness of the sky, the cloud of smoke that seemed to seep from the ever expanding web of fissures tearing the roads apart. He didn't spare a glance behind them once he stopped the car, didn't want to see what was coming, just grabbed for Archie's hand and sprinted for his front door, slamming it shut behind them.

Dublin had been at the window, paws braced on the sill and barking frantically - Cook had grabbed him and shoved him into Archie's arms, head buzzing with the last painful notes of that damn garbled screech.

"Go downstairs!" he'd barked, moving like a madman around the living room, pushing the couch up against the door, sweeping the heavy bookcase clear so he could do the same with it ( _salt_ , he'd thought, half-frantic, sweat pouring down the back of his neck, _need to get- goddamn it, there's no **time**_.)

Archie had still been standing there, frozen, Dublin squirming in his arms and growling at every muffled boom from outside, and it wasn't - they didn't have time for this, either, not now, and Cook had yelled at him to "Fucking move, Arch! _Now_!" gritting his teeth against the apology already forming on his tongue when Archie had flinched, expression crumpling before he'd hurried into the kitchen towards the basement stairs, Dublin's high-pitched yips echoing behind him.

Even now Cook doesn't really remember what he did upstairs while he was on his own, only recalls the vaguest blur of frantic movement, throwing salt against the sills and the doors, hands fucking shaking all the while, locking everything down tight. And the _sounds_ , all that noise outside - the screaming, the crying, the _growling_ (inhuman and guttural; Cook hadn't bothered to look out the window to see what the fuck it was) increasing in intensity.

He does remember that first night, huddled in the corner of the basement with Archie clinging to his arms, Dublin between them, alternating between frightened whimpers and angry growls. He remembers not sleeping a wink, not being able to, even when Archie drifted off in an exhausted slump against his side. He'd stayed up listening to the sounds filtering in from outside, the screams of pain, the roar of thunder and wind, and the occasional (and fucking terrifying) creak of his house above them.

He'd only ventured out once the next day, ducking upstairs to grab food and water bottles from the fridge and to make sure the salt lines had held during the night. He knew realistically that they couldn't stay in the basement forever, that at some point their food and water would run out (or the house would fall in on them, if the previous night had been any indication), but they weren't - it wasn't as if they could move even if they'd wanted to. There was no telling what was out there, what was happening, if they'd even be able to manage the short sprint to the car unscathed, and as far as bunkers went his basement was as good a place as any - no windows, a couch that pulled out into a bed, a bathroom. He'd had it redone not that long ago, fitted with new carpet and furniture, a new entertainment system set up against the wall.

(Pretty fucking useless now, but at least they'd be comfortable while they waited for the world to end.)

And they were fine - as fine as they _could_ be. Even after a week of uncertainty, of terrified phone calls and whispered, teary conversations with their family ( _just please be safe, please don't let them be -_ ), even after the power had surged and blacked out, even as the house had creaked and groaned above their heads, so frequently and so forcefully it was a miracle the whole damn thing hadn't caved in on them already - they'd _survived_. They'd made it this far.

And they could do it again. Another week, a month - hell, as long as they needed to. They would be okay. Cook would fucking make sure of it.

-

Dublin is asleep on the pull-out when Cook goes back downstairs, nose stuffed underneath one of the pillows and snoring faintly. He spares his dog an exasperated glance (at least someone is getting some sleep), squinting through the gloom to find Archie. Candles are pretty much their only source of light right now; they have flashlights, too, dug up from the closet a few days ago, but they use them conservatively, trying not to waste the batteries. There's not much light either way, only a softly glowing circle around the bed and the armchairs, one of which holds Archie, curled up with his arms wrapped around his knees, face lit up by the glow of his cell phone's screen.

Cook swallows at the sight at him, stomach twisting and achy. He'd given Archie a spare set of his own clothes, some pajama pants and a worn t-shirt, and they dwarf the boy's smaller frame. He looks younger than his twenty years, bare toes curled over the chair's cushion, the expression on his face nothing short of homesick.

(The surge of protectiveness Cook feels at the sight is all at once familiar and overwhelming.)

"Any news?" he asks, if just to try and get that look off of Archie's face. He perches on the chair's arm, peering over Archie's shoulder at the phone's screen, heart plummeting a little at the single bar of power. He knows his own isn't much better - a few more calls and both of their phones will finally give out, but thinking about it and actually experiencing it are two very fucking different things.

Archie shakes his head slowly, fingers hovering over the keys and eyes downcast. "No, not yet." There's a hesitance in his voice that Cook has become more and more familiar with as the days go by, and he knows what the next words out of Archie's mouth will be even before the boy speaks. "...Do you think they...?"

"No." Cook's voice is resolute. Even if there was a chance... even if, giving up hope this late in the game would tear them both apart. "They're fine, Arch. Just give them some time."

Archie nods, expression resigned, leaning back a little so that his side is pressed alongside Cook's, the warmth between them a shared and appreciated comfort. "Did.. was everything alright upstairs?"

"Hm? Yeah, everything's fine." Archie doesn't know half the things Cook actually does on his daily treks upstairs - not about the salt lines, not about the destruction outside - and Cook plans on keeping it that way. It's not that he wants to keep the younger man in the dark - far from it, in fact. He would love to be able to talk about it all - the things he knows are out there, the creatures that might be battling it out up top at this very moment, but it's too much, too much _else_ for Arch to worry about, on top of his family and his friends and keeping himself safe. "What about you?" Now that he's looking for it, he can see the dark circles under Archie's eyes, the sickly pallor of his face. It's obvious he hasn't been sleeping much, despite Cook's fervent assurances that he can, that they're as safe as they're ever going to get down here.

"Me? I-I'm okay, Cook." Of course, the yawn that interrupts him indicates otherwise, but Cook gives him points for trying. "You really don't have to worry about me."

"Someone has to," he says, grinning a little. He feels pretty drained himself, eyes the fold-out bed and it's rumpled sheets with something very much like longing. It's not that he hasn't gotten any sleep at all (more than Archie, at the very least), but it's never been sound, never deep enough to make him feel anything close to rested once he opens his eyes again. Actually... "C'mon."

"Huh? Where do you - Cook!" It's easy enough to ignore Archie's protests, to wrap his fingers around the younger man's wrist and pull him towards the bed. "What are you - ?"

"You're going to sleep," Cook says, matter-of-factly, kicking off his shoes and letting them thump over the side of the bed. Dublin whines at the sudden movement but otherwise remains blissfully unaware of his bedmates, digging his nose further underneath his pillow.

Archie shakes his head, protest ready on his tongue. "But I'm not - "

"Yes, you are." He lets the humor fall away from his voice. "Archie, you're exhausted. Just- try, okay? For a little while? Do it for me."

Though it trembles at the edges, Archie's smile is still the best thing Cook's seen all week. "C-c'mon, Cook. You know that's not fair."

Cook grins. "Yeah, well, when it comes to taking care of you I reserve the right to be manipulative. Now - " He pats the side of the bed that Archie has been claiming as his own, "lay down and sleep."

Any last protest Arch plans on making is eclipsed once again by a jaw-cracking yawn, and he sighs (all resigned with it, like he isn't fucking aching with exhaustion), settling his head on the pillow Dublin's not buried under, his cell on the mattress within easy reach. "Alright, Cook," he mumbles sleepily, eyes already at half-mast and closing more by the second. The hand between them gropes across the mattress, hesitates only a fraction of a second before curling around Cook's. "Will you... will you wake me if something - ?"

"Yeah," Cook breathes, squeezing the hand wrapped around his own, "I'll wake you."

-

It's Archie who wakes _him_ , what feels like hours later. He's gripping the cell pressed to his ear so tightly his knuckles are bone-white, voice harsh and reedy, yelling at whoever is on the other line.

Hearing his voice raised like that scares Cook more than even the desperate, terrified expression on the younger man's face.

"What - ?! No, don't - _Don't go outside_! Jazzy? Amber! Do you hear me?!" His voice takes on a more frantic edge, but even over it Cook can hear the tiny damning beep of Archie's cell losing power. "J-Jazzy? You guys? _H-Hello_?!" The crack in Arch's voice is heartbreaking, doubly so when combined with the angry, desperate tears rolling down his face. "O-oh gosh, this _stupid_ \- "

He yanks his phone (the screen black now, and silent) away from his ear, throwing it against the wall - it shatters, the sound deafening, broken pieces scattering on the carpet. Dublin yelps at the noise, ducking underneath the bed, and Archie curls in on himself, great, gasping sobs shaking his thin frame, mumbling a stream of nonsensical words that Cook can't even make out.

"Archie..." Cook grabs his hand, leans down so he can look the boy in the eye. "Look at me. It's alright, okay?"

Archie shakes his head, squeezing the hand wrapped around his. "No, no, it's - O-oh gosh, Cook, it's, they said they _saw_ \- "

"What, Arch?" he asks, heart hammering because whatever it is... whatever it is - "What did they see?"

Archie looks up at him then, all tears and desolate eyes, and Cook feels the hopelessness rise up in him like never before.

" _A-Angels_."

-

His brother tells him there are hounds the size of cars roaming the streets of his hometown, eyes the color of old blood and fur matted and war-torn. Humans (but _not_ ) follow after them, eyes black and manic, oozing smoke from their pores.

"Whatever they are," Andrew says, voice tired and strained but still ( _still_ ) hopeful, "it looks like they're losing. Maybe... maybe it's almost over?"

It's the last thing Cook hears before the battery on his cell finally sputters and dies.

-

In the wake of those moments, when their last shred of communication with the outside world is finally cut, the only option left to them seems to be one of despondency. The battle outside, whether it be near its end or not, still rages - the house creaks and shudders with it, the sky blackens more with it, and now, in the place of familial correspondence, all they have is silence.

It would be easy to give up, to give in, but they don't. Cook won't let them.

There's not much they can do, trapped in the house, confined to the basement, but Cook grabs his acoustic from upstairs (resolutely not paying attention to the cracks running up his walls and the broken windows) and sits against the wall, playing anything and everything that comes to mind. His fingers falter more than once, clumsy with disuse (and if that isn't fucking heartbreaking), but he keeps at it, watching Archie's face carefully for any sign of change, trying to erase that miserable expression for just a little while.

He goes through his old Idol repertoire, even some of Archie's, but it's not until he starts in on "Crush," all bright eyes and enthusiasm like he's just daring Arch to resist, that he hears it - singing. It's soft at first - nearly indecipherable over the sound of his own voice - but it builds, slow and sure and the best damn thing Cook's heard in _weeks_.

Archie's voice has always had an effect on him, always been able to knock him flat, take his breath away. It's one aspect of their relationship that has never changed, and probably never will. Hearing it now, raspy and clear after so long without it, knowing that if things continue as they are this might be the last time he _does_... A slow ache blooms in his chest, tight and painful. He doesn't let it show, can't afford to - keeps playing, and singing, and if both of their voices crack on the chorus, if his fingers shake a little against the strings, well. No one else is around to witness it.

-

It's raining when he wakes up next.

He knows it before he opens his eyes, can hear the tell-tale pattering of drops against the roof, the roar of the wind as it slams against the house. A storm. It's the first one they've had that wasn't interspersed with the muted booms of the earth tearing itself apart, wasn't drowned out by angry, inhuman screams.

Cook feels relief settle thickly in the pit of his stomach, though he can't explain why. Despite the absence of that terrifying, otherworldly noise, he can't fathom why this storm should feel so different from those they've weathered since this mess began.

Lying there, though, listening... It's almost as if the earth is sighing underneath him, like the rain - heavy, harsh as it is - is a source of comfort sorely-missed. He can picture it clearly - the parched, broken ground opening its arms to the deluge, the ash and blood and smoke washing away.

It feels like things are _changing_.

When he finally opens his eyes, it's to the sight of Archie's gaze, calm and clear and close, and something else feels like it's slotting into place, like time is moving forward rather than grounding to a halt. Cook stares back quietly. For some reason he's not even surprised to see Arch this close, a scant few inches away, fingers curled loosely in the bit of space between them. The younger man looks thoughtful, determined, a little scared. Cook's not sure of what.

"I wanted to tell you something." It's amazing that he can even hear Archie's voice over the roar of the storm outside. It's picked up, heavier. Cook wonders if it will even stop, if the rain will just keep falling and falling. If, in the end, it will be enough to wash all the blood and death and choking black smoke away.

"That day, at the cafe. I called you out to meet me because I'd been..." Archie swallows, voice a little softer, a little more hesitant. "There was something I needed to tell you, something important. The entire way there, I was ready to blurt it out, kept going over how I was going to say it in the car. But then, when I saw you - " He shrugs, closing his eyes for a moment. "I panicked. Couldn't do it, not yet. I was too scared. I still.. I still am. It's stupid, huh? After all this, being afraid of something so..." He trails off. Another shrug, helpless. "But I can't help it, Cook."

When he opens his eyes again they're bright, and terrified, hopeless and hopeful and _brimming_ with something Cook can't quite put his finger on (still makes his chest erupt with feeling, warm, thrumming with anticipation.)

"What is it, Archie?" he asks, voice low, but in the end it's a question he already knows the answer to (probably always had.)

Maybe everything - Archie's call, the cafe, maybe even the end of the goddamn world - maybe it's all been leading up to this, to Archie closing the gap between them, to wet cheeks and rushed breaths and that split second of hesitance before lips settle over his.

There's no thinking, no waiting, only wind and rain roaring overhead as Cook surges forward, presses close, still not enough to drown out Archie's hitching breaths, his shaky sighs, the, "I'm glad it's you," whimpered in the ever-present rasp of his voice. "Cook, if this is - _oh_ , if this is it, I'm happy that I'm with you."

After all of it, the death and destruction, angels and demons and running away from more than just monsters, there's no time to be wasted on talking, on thinking, on anything but _feeling_. Still, his throat closes around all the words he's never said, all that's left to say. He presses forward, the storm crashing overhead and Archie's voice in his ears, and hopes that his actions will speak for him.

-

They wake up on the last day knowing it _is_ the last day.

The basement hasn't changed - there's the same darkness, the same quiet - but there's also a lightness to the air that Cook hasn't felt in weeks, a release of pressure that has them both grinning without even knowing why. An unspoken agreement leads both upstairs, Dublin circling their feet in an exuberant burst of energy that had been absent during their self-imposed isolation.

Upstairs, they don't search the walls for cracks. They don't pull the blinds open to check for broken windows. Cook knows with absolute certainty that there will be none, just as he knows a single flick of the light switch will illuminate his living room in a way it hasn't been since the morning of Archie's call.

It's only when they move away the furniture stacked up against the door that Cook feels the true beginning of fear. He looks at his house, at the smooth cream walls devoid of the damage they'd sported just days ago, at the absence of glass on the floor from all the windows that had been blown apart, and he remembers the last time he'd looked outside - the devastation and the waste of his yard, the blackblackblack sky.

But Archie takes his hand, twining their fingers together, both cracked and dirty and trembling, and with a rush of breath and a final, reassuring squeeze, Cook grabs for the knob and opens the door.

Their breath catches at the same time.

Pale, rosy dawn, spreading her fingers across the horizon. His yard stretches out before them, as green and whole as it ever was. Dublin barks and takes off running across it, paws kicking up dust.

The only blackness that mars the brightening sky is the receding darkness of night. A strip of fiery orange stretches across the horizon, rises. It seems they've woken up, Cook thinks giddily, cheeks aching with the force of his grin, just in time to welcome back the sun.

"Is it over?" Archie's looking at the sky, the reds and golds and purples (colors they both thought they'd never see again). He's fighting a smile - tired, worn, but _there_ \- not wanting to believe, still afraid to hope.

Cook doesn't answer him. Can't. Doesn't even know what to say. Is it over? Is it really that simple? Weeks of fighting, of darkness, of god-knows-what using the earth as their own personal battleground, and now - what?

In the end, he thinks, squeezing Archie's hand, it doesn't matter. Maybe later it will, maybe later they can think about the hows and the whys and the what-ifs. Right now, all he wants to do is take Arch out to meet the sunrise.


End file.
